


Reasonable

by timehopper



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Canonical Character Death, Friendly Meddling, M/M, POV Multiple, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25456621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: What begins as a friendly, innocuous tea date turns into so much more when a certain noble decides that Linhardt von Hevring and Felix Hugo Fraldarius would make the perfect match, and sets about trying to ensure their happiness.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was commissioned and outlined by [Finch](https://twitter.com/brindlefinch)! I'm super excited to be bringing their idea to life and sharing this wonderful ship with you all. 
> 
> The story will span the entirety of Fire Emblem: Three Houses, and will feature multiple characters and POVs, but will not adhere exactly to the plot - there will be some canon divergence. Tags will be updated according to the plot's progression.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The school year begins. Ferdinand attempts to make friends, and finds out something interesting about his classmates.

Linhardt von Hevring is a strange man. He sleeps through class, spends most of his time reading in the library or napping by the fish pond, and avoids any discussion coming even remotely near politics. The only time he ever seems to work hard is when he’s trying to get out of doing his chores, and even then, moments later he will inevitably be found hunched over a table with a pillow beneath his head. 

Ferdinand has to admit, he is curious. To think a classmate of his, a member of the esteemed Black Eagles class - and the heir to a prominent noble family, no less - would so insistently shy away from both politics and battle, when those were the exact subjects they have all been sent to Garreg Mach to study! It simply will not do for him to shirk his responsibilities so. 

Despite knowing it is not his place to pry into another’s business, Ferdinand simply cannot help himself. He decides to invite Linhardt to tea as a show of goodwill and an offer of friendship - because the goddess knows the Black Eagles could use a touch more of that - and perhaps he can even use this as an opportunity to motivate him. 

(And though he will never admit as much aloud, Ferdinand also wishes to show off his tea collection. It is, admittedly, one of his father’s better gifts to him.)

Linhardt accepts the invitation with a bored shrug. He joins Ferdinand in the courtyard the next afternoon, taking his seat and placing his hands in his lap.

_ Hm, _ Ferdinand thinks.  _ Not the greatest manners, but at least his elbows are not on the table. _

“Do you have a preferred blend?” he asks as he sets the water to boil. 

“Not really,” Linhardt answers, syllables mixing together on the tail end of a yawn. Ferdinand frowns. How can Linhardt already sound so dreadfully bored? They have hardly even begun to speak yet.

No matter. He can work through this. “Very well,” Ferdinand says. He shuffles through his collection until he eventually finds a blend Linhardt may enjoy: Almyran Pine. It is one of Ferdiand’s own favourites for being earthy and  _ almost _ sweet beneath the bitterness, but not terribly so. The needles are the finest quality available in Fódlan, too - imported from Almyra itself. If nothing else, that should prove suitably impressive.

"I think this will do nicely," he says. Linhardt hums noncommittally.

As the water boils, Ferdinand measures the leaves carefully. Once they are in the strainer, and the strainer has been dipped into the hot water, he counts down the seconds in his head until they have properly steeped. It would not do for his first tea date with Linhardt to be anything less than flawless, after all. 

He sets the tea on the table, one cup each, filled to three quarters before the rim. Room for milk or cream, if Linhardt takes it. A sugar bowl and jar of honey rest between them. Ferdinand cares not for sugar in his tea, most days, but he is nothing if not an accommodating host. 

Linhardt takes neither the sugar nor the cream. Instead of fiddling with it, he lifts the cup and sips directly from it without giving the tea time to cool. If it burns his mouth, he makes no indication, and he sets the cup back down once he is finished. 

Despite himself, Ferdinand is impressed. Apparently Linhardt is something of a tea connoisseur himself. Surely this is a sign that they will become good friends.

"It's good," Linhardt says, perhaps the highest praise that could come from one so perpetually bored with everything around him. It makes Ferdinand smile. 

"I am pleased to hear you like it,” he says. “The finest Almyran Pine to be found in Fódlan. I have extra needles, if you would like to take some with you when you leave."

"Hm… maybe."

Though it is hardly the enthusiasm Ferdinand wants, he supposes he cannot be surprised. Any progress is good progress, though, he reminds himself as he helped himself to a tea cake. "In any case," he continues, unperturbed, "I must say I find you quite fascinating. Have you no interest in your father's work? You will be inheriting it, after all, and is it not our duty as nobles to do what we can to uphold the order of the empire?" 

From the eye roll his words earn him, Ferdinand wonders if perhaps he had started out too strong. Fortunately, however, it does not seem to deter an answer from Linhardt. "Ugh, you sound like my father," he says. "I just have no interest in politics. I would much rather spend my days pursuing something I actually enjoy. Or, perhaps, to sleep the days away…"

Sleep his days away! What a terrible waste. But, wanting to keep the conversation going, Ferdinand does not dare to say so. "I do not see why you cannot do both," he says instead. "Even my father has time to pursue hobbies, little though there is."

"That's just it." Linhardt sighs and swirls the tea in his cup once, twice, and sips it again. "He only has a  _ little _ free time. I’d rather have all the free time in the world.” He sets his tea down. 

"Then perhaps someone to share in your duties, so that you may have more time?" 

"Hmm." Linhardt pauses, seeming to consider the idea. "I admit the thought has crossed my mind before. I suppose that if I have to inherit my father's title, I would much rather marry and have my spouse take care of my duties as Count Hevring."

"Oh?" That, at last, is something Ferdinand can latch on to. Though only minimally experienced in matters of the heart himself, it is certainly a topic of interest for him - perhaps more so than he is willing to admit in polite company. "And is there anyone you have in mind for the position?" 

Linhardt frowns. "If you're asking if I'm interested in anyone at the moment, the answer is no.” He contemplates his tea a moment; Ferdinand hastens to refill it when he realizes how little there is left. "I used to think Caspar would be a good fit, being that he's a second son, but he hardly has the sense for administration and finances, let alone the interest." 

He shrugs and takes another sip of his newly-refilled tea. Ferdinand copies the motion, lost in thought. So Linhardt had harboured romantic feelings for Caspar at some point? How very…    
  
" _ Interesting _ ," he says. 

"Is it?" Linhardt does not seem amused. He does not seem much of anything, really, save bored. 

"Oh, yes," Ferdinand insists. "I did not realize you were interested in the boisterous type."

Linhardt chokes on his tea. Ferdinand hands him a handkerchief to clean up what spills down his chin and dribbles onto the table. 

"I'm - I’m not," Linhardt says, voice strained as he tries to right himself. He places the cup back onto its saucer, takes the handkerchief, and cleans his face, then the table, clicking his tongue in annoyance as the last tiny little puddle disappears. 

"Sorry about that," he says, only a touch less apologetically than the situation warrants, but Ferdinand waves his hand dismissively. 

"Think nothing of it," he says. "It is an unfortunate waste, but as long as you are unharmed, that is what matters." 

The conversation moves along after that, to topics Linhardt finds far more interesting. Ferdinand pays little attention, offering an affirmative hum here and there and mostly letting Linhardt do the speaking for now. His mind drifts to other thoughts: thoughts of what it could be that had attracted Linhardt to Caspar in the first place, if and if there are any other similar eligible bachelors at Garreg Mach, and if any of them are worth looking into as a potential match for Linhardt.

By the time they reach the bottom of the tea pot, Ferdinand thinks he knows just the one.

* * *

It is frustrating to get a hold of Felix. Not only is he in a different house, he is notoriously difficult to approach, as short in temper as he is skilled with a blade. The rare few times Ferdinand is able to get close enough to speak with him, Felix cuts him off and leaves before he can even make his request. 

In the end, Ferdinand has to call in favours - not only from his fellow Black Eagles, but from students in the other houses, too (Hilda runs him ragged and doesn’t even bother speaking with Felix; Sylvain is more a hindrance than a help; Dimitri awkwardly tells him he does not think Felix will listen to him). In the end, it is Ingrid who comes to his aid, only convincing Felix to take tea with Ferdinand after Ferdinand bribes her with some dried meat prepared in traditional Brigid custom.

Predictably, when Felix arrives at the table Ferdinand has set for them, he is grumpy, irritated, and terse. "I'm here,” he announces. “What do you want?"

_ He has no sense of delicacy, _ Ferdinand thinks, but that hardly deters him; in fact, it only serves as encouragement. "I am simply looking for a pleasant chat," he explains. It is mostly true - he is genuinely curious about Felix, even aside from his ulterior motives. From what he has heard, they share a handful of common interests. 

That is how he decides to start the conversation, but first: “What sort of tea do you prefer, Felix? I am certain I can find something to your tastes.” 

“I don’t care.” Felix crosses his arms and leans back in his seat. “Whatever will get this over with faster.” 

“...Very well.” Ferdinand is not surprised by his temper, but Felix’s rudeness seems to have been undersold, even with Ingrid’s warnings. He opens up the box he’s brought with him and shuffles through it, searching for the perfect blend. Now, what to choose…? 

Ferdinand tries to recall what he can of Felix. He does not seem the type to like sweets - a thought confirmed mere seconds after crossing Ferdinand’s mind when he sees Felix turn up his nose at the tea cakes. Albinean Berry is out, then, as are his other fruit blends. Then, perhaps…

It is worth a try. Ferdinand withdraws the bag of Almyran Pine. Bitter, with an underlying almost-sweet earthiness. It seems a good fit. And if he is right… 

Ferdinand prepares the tea with the same care he had for Linhardt. Steeped properly, down to the second, a generous helping of needles without being excessive. Felix does not watch him, does not seem interested in the intricacies of tea preparation, but that is fine. Ferdinand hardly expects that of him. 

He pours them each a cup, leaving little room for honey, milk, or sugar. He has brought it, but, as he predicts, Felix does not use them, and Ferdinand himself does not feel like adding sugar or honey today, either. 

He blows on the surface of his tea before taking a delicate sip. Brewed to perfection, as always. Felix looks down at his cup, but does not pick it up, though the crease in his brow smooths somewhat. 

Ferdinand sets his cup down. “So,” he begins, ready to begin the conversation, now that he knows Felix will not leave (he is a noble, after all; despite his attitude, Felix does seem to possess some decorum). "I have heard you are interested in weaponry. It is something I believe we have in common.”

Felix raises a brow. “Is that so?” 

“Indeed. I make it something of a hobby to collect rare historical weapons - or replicas of them, if it is not possible to find the original.”

Felix’s eyes narrow, but not angrily. He seems more intrigued by that than anything else Ferdinand has said thus far. “Replicas? Art pieces, then, I presume.” 

“Oh, no.” Ferdinand smiles, wide and gleeful. “Each and every sword in my collection - even the replicas - was forged by a master blacksmith. They are every bit as deadly as the originals.” 

That nearly draws a smile from Felix. At the very least, he is no longer frowning. “I see,” he says. Apparently impressed, he begins to detail weapons in his own collection. Though he is more discerning in the types of weaponry he studies - swords, specifically, in contrast to Ferdinand’s fascination with weapons of all types - he shows a vast, comprehensive understanding of weaponry and proper maintenance techniques. 

And he is… shockingly passionate, for how cold he had seemed at the beginning of their tea date. They end up speaking of the subject for hours, even after they have long since finished their first pot of tea and begun a second. Felix gets increasingly more animated in his speech, particularly when Ferdinand asks him about a particular sword in his collection - one passed down the Fraldarius line for generations. Though Felix shows a touch disdain for the line of inheritance, this seems to be one tradition he does not mind. 

“And speaking of inheritance,” Ferdinand starts, finally finding the opening he has been waiting for this entire chat, “I do not suppose you have given much thought to that, yourself?” 

Felix’s eyes narrow. He freezes in the middle of lifting his teacup to his mouth for another sip. “No.” 

“Oh, my apologies - I do not mean your own inheritance,” Ferdinand clarifies. “I simply mean that at some point you, too, will have to pass your title on, as will I. And for that, we will each need to find proper spouses to pass on our bloodline, will we not?” 

Felix puts his cup down with more force than is likely necessary. “I’m not interested in this line of discussion,” he snaps. “I didn’t come here to find a lover.” 

“But that does not mean it is impossible!” Ferdinand says, perhaps a little hastily. “Surely you must have some interest in…” 

“I don’t.” Felix stands. “And if that’s what you really invited me here to discuss, then we have nothing more to talk about.” 

“Wait!” Ferdinand calls, reaching a hand out to Felix as he pushes his chair out from behind him and turns to leave. “Before you go, I have one more thing to ask.” 

Felix clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, but he does turn to face Ferdinand. “Then stop wasting my time and ask.” 

Ferdinand wilts a little bit under that glare, but he schools himself enough to ask, not a hint of unease in his voice, “What did you think of the tea?” 

“What?” Felix blinks. “It was… fine. Good. I liked it. Almyran Pine is my favourite.” He pauses a moment, waiting for a response, and in the silence, his frown returns to his face. “Is that all?” 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says. “Thank you, Felix.” 

“Hmph.” 

He does not even bid Ferdinand farewell as he turns on his heel and walks off, but that is fine. What Ferdinand has learned from this little encounter is far more valuable than a simple goodbye.

Ferdinand has done it: he has found Linhardt’s perfect match. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this fic was commissioned and outlined by [Finch](https://twitter.com/brindlefinch)! 
> 
> But if you're enjoying the writing and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or are interested in having me write a fic for you too, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> If you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥


	2. Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mock battle begins. Ferdinand executes a plan; Felix gets in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's been ages since I first posted this fic, but I'm still working on it! Life very rudely got in the way, but now I'm back to working on this fic. :) And because things have been a little less hectic lately, I plan to update this story on a monthly basis going forward. That means one chapter per month - so I hope you all look forward to that!
> 
> This chapter was commissioned, outlined, and partially scripted by Finch. I'm just putting words to their ideas and having a blast doing it. :)

The mock battle approaches quickly. Though most of the Black Eagles are every bit as eager as Ferdinand to prove themselves against the rest of their classmates, there are those who do not share his enthusiasm. And though Bernadetta manages to convince Edelgard to keep her on the back lines, as far from the fighting as possible, Linhardt is not granted that same mercy. 

As much as he does not want to agree with Edelgard, here alone Ferdinand has to admit her judgement is sound: Linhardt is the only student in their house capable of casting healing magic, and so it makes sense he should be close enough to reach the front lines should the need arise. 

“Close to the bloodshed, maybe,” Linhardt says with a weak little shudder as Ferdinand attempts to reassure him before the battle. 

“Aw, don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” Caspar says. He elbows Linhardt in the arm, grinning cheerfully. 

Linhardt rolls his eyes. “ _You’re_ the one I’m worried the most about, Caspar. Always so reckless…” 

“That’s because I’m the best fighter we’ve got!” 

“I will have to disagree with you there,” Ferdinand says. “I have seen you train, but I am afraid you would still be no match for me on the battlefield.” 

“That a challenge?”

“Stop it, you two.” Edelgard chooses this moment to interrupt. She approaches with the same stern look on her face as always. She stops before the three of them and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “The battle is about to begin. Ferdinand, get into position. Caspar, Linhardt, I expect you both to be on your best behaviour.” 

Linhardt yawns loudly, no doubt on purpose. “As you command.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Caspar says. 

Ferdinand nods. “I will set a shining example for our classmates.” 

Edelgard turns her gaze on him. She is as unreadable as ever as she contemplates his words, but in the end, she gives Ferdinand a small smile, nearly invisible. “See to it that you do.” 

The four of them separate. Edelgard takes her place next to Hubert; Caspar bounces eagerly in place while Linhardt stares into the distance; Ferdinand moves to the front lines, lance in hand, and watches as first the Golden Deer, then the Blue Lions, led by their enigmatic new professor, fall into formation. 

The battle begins. 

Predictably, no sooner do the trumpets sound than Caspar runs off into the middle of the fray. Ferdinand hears Edelgard call after him to stop, but by the time the words have escaped her, Caspar has already begun exchanging blows with Leonie.

It seems, then, that the Golden Deer will be their first targets. Ferdinand meets Lorenz’s eye a short distance away, and with that, the challenge is issued. Lorenz accepts immediately, and a moment later, their weapons clash, iron clanging together in a fierce exchange of blows. 

Naturally, Ferdinand puts his all into this fight. The Black Eagles’ honour is riding on this mock battle, after all — not to mention his own pride. It would not do for him to lose here.

And yet…

From behind Lorenz, Ferdinand catches a glimpse of dark green. The momentary distraction is enough to allow Lorenz to land a hit on him — and a surprisingly strong one, too — but it is not enough to stop Ferdinand from realizing that Linhardt is, quite literally, walking away from the fight. And while Ferdinand would love to chase after him and drag him back to ensure he carries out his duty as a noble of the Black Eagles house…

Even further behind Lorenz, Felix has just concluded his skirmish with Hilda. Unsurprisingly, he’s come away the victor, with Hilda putting up a token show of disappointment before departing the field.

And that gives Ferdinand an idea. 

Lorenz takes another swing at him, but this time, Ferdinand is faster. He ducks below the weapon coming for his head, jolts forward, and knocks Lorenz flat onto his back by shoving the shaft of his lance horizontally into Lorenz’s gut. 

“My apologies, Lorenz, but I have other duties to attend to!” he shouts as he begins to retreat. “Perhaps we could enjoy a rematch some other time!” 

Ferdinand runs. He knows he has to act fast — Felix is already on the prowl for his next target, and Petra has just freed herself up. Felix hasn’t spotted her yet, but it’s only a matter of time before he does (the allure of a good swordfight is difficult to resist, after all).

And so he acts. 

“Felix!” 

That gets his classmate’s attention easily. Felix’s eyes narrow as his gaze falls on Ferdinand. 

“Von Aegir. What do you want?” 

Felix’s tone is derisive, dismissive. It makes Ferdinand balk for a moment. They are in the middle of a battle — what else could Ferdinand want? — but he quickly gathers himself. “To fight you, of course! Noble to noble!” 

Felix eyes him up. Ferdinand readies his stance, hoping that gives him more of an incentive, but in the end, Felix just snorts and looks away. “No thanks.” 

“I — excuse me? You are looking for an opponent, are you not? And I have come before you seeking a challenge! Does it not make sense for us to engage in combat?” 

He can only just see the roll of Felix’s eyes, turned away as he is. “You think yourself a worthy foe for my blade?”

“I do, in fact.” Ferdinand moves forward, trying to cut off Felix’s escape. “We have both taken down an opponent each in this mock battle. Lorenz put up quite the struggle — and I am sure Hilda must have done the same.” 

She had not. Though Ferdinand had not seen the fight itself, he had watched her cheerfully skip away from the battlefield to sit on the sidelines. Normally, he would not stoop to such low and dishonourable tactics as lying to get his way, but at the same time… it is a small price to pay for what will surely bring his friends — Felix included — some modicum of happiness. 

Felix must either know he is being disingenuous, or else he truly is intrigued by the fact that Ferdinand has taken down an opponent on his own, because his expression shifts from one of disdain to one of cautious appraisal. In the end, he nods. Regardless of the reason behind it, it seems he has finally granted Ferdinand his approval. 

“Fine,” he says. “Then come at me.” 

He raises his sword, readying himself for an attack. Ferdinand happily gives him what he wants — but only to a certain extent. He swings wide, with no intention at all of hitting Felix. Instead, he aims to open himself up for attack, and Felix takes the bait. He lunges, swinging for Ferdinand’s side, and though he manages to hit Ferdinand and draw blood, the blow is not decisive enough to defeat him. 

Felix follows up quickly with a thrust toward Ferdinand’s chest. Ferdinand hops back, out of the way, and turns tail to run off. “You will have to do better than that!” he calls over his shoulder.

Felix hesitates. The look on his face suggests it's more out of shock than anything else, and that is fine with Ferdinand. As long as he follows along, everything will be fine. 

* * *

That damned von Aegir. 

He’s faster than he looks, Felix will give him that. Not as fast as Felix, but the head start he’d gotten has given him more of an advantage than expected. 

He ducks into a small thicket, calling a taunt over his shoulder as he disappears into the foliage. Felix follows, crashing through the underbrush and looking around wildly for his opponent.

Ferdinand is undoubtedly looking to set up an ambush. He’s disappeared completely from sight – surprising, given how prim and proper he seems to be. It’s impressive, but Felix is too annoyed to grant him that small praise, even in his mind.

He continues his search, cutting away branches and brush where it’s thickest, and then at last he finds a clue. Ferdinand may have hidden himself well, but the fact that he had abandoned his uniform jacket – albeit under a bush, almost completely hidden from sight – is enough to warn Felix that an attack is imminent.

“I’m not falling for your tricks!” he shouts, walking toward the jacket. Felix turns about in a circle, looking for any sign of movement from the brush. “Come out here and face me, von Aegir!” 

There. Movement a few feet away, beneath a nearby tree. Felix steps forward, brandishing his sword before him. “I’ve got you now.” 

He pushes his way through the bushes, ready to finally strike Ferdinand down… 

...Only to come face to face with Linhardt von Hevring. 

Linhardt opens his eyes, looking for all the world like a grumpy bear rising early from hibernation. He glares sleepily at Felix, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

Felix lowers his sword. He can’t believe this. “Are you… napping?”

Linhardt grumbles something to himself and sits up, leaning back against the tree he had been lying under. “Well, I was,” he says, clearly unamused. “What are you doing here?” 

Felix scoffs. Did he seriously run off in the middle of a battle to take a _nap_? These Black Eagles are ridiculous, every last one of them. “It doesn’t matter. We’re meant to be fighting, so draw your weapon or ready your magic. I don’t go easy on lazy opponents.”

“Is that so? Well, my apologies, but fighting just isn’t on my agenda for…” He shifts as if to stand, but the moment his eyes fall on Felix’s sword, still stained with Ferdinand’s blood, Linhardt’s face pales. “...today.” 

He backs up, a drop of sweat trickling down from his temple. Felix’s grip on his sword tightens, and he steps forward. Something about this whole situation is… off, but he can’t quite place what it is.

“What’s the matter with you?” Felix snaps, despite his sudden uncertainty. “Stand up and fight me.” 

“I…” Linhardt looks around wildly, side to side, as if searching for an escape. 

“I won’t warn you again. Draw your weapon or prepare to fight me unarmed.” 

“I — Felix, please, wait—” 

_“Hey!”_

Felix turns around just in time to see Caspar bounding up to him and barreling through the underbrush as if it’s nothing. He raises his sword, but before he can properly fight him off, Caspar crashes into him, grabbing him around his middle and tackling him to the ground with a battle cry. 

They hit the ground hard. Caspar may be short, but he’s strong, and his weight on top of Felix knocks all the air from his lungs. 

Felix wheezes. He tries, weakly, to push Caspar off him even as he regains his breath. He can’t form the words to demand what’s going on and he hates himself for it, but more than that, he’s angry. Enraged, really, over the fact that he has apparently fallen for Ferdinand’s trap.

“Caspar.” Above them, Linhardt’s voice sounds out, quiet and shaky. He must have stood up at some point. Felix doesn’t care, though; he’s too busy trying to free himself from under Caspar, to fight him off and put an end to this stupid charade.

Capsar ignores Linhardt. “What’s wrong with you?!” He shouts down at Felix. Caspar backs off him enough that Felix can breathe a little easier, balls his hand into a fist, and rears his arm back. “Everyone knows Linhardt’s afraid of blood! Swinging around a weapon that’s covered in it in front of him just for fun? I knew the Kingdom was cold, but that’s just plain evil!”

What is he talking about? Blood? They’re in the middle of a battle; of course there’s going to be blood. He almost says as much, but decides against it, instead seizing the opportunity to gain some leverage and shove Caspar off him.

When he’s free, Felix shuffles back, inadvertently toward Linhardt. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Linhardt flinch. “That’s not what I—” 

_“Felix.”_

All together, three sets of eyes turn toward Professor Byleth. He stands a short distance away, sword sheathed and arms crossed, that ever-vacant expression trained on Felix. 

Felix stands. He dusts himself off, brushing dirt and leaves and pine needles from his uniform, if only so he doesn’t have to look his teacher in the eye. “Professor.” 

It’s silent a moment – the kind of expectant silence Felix loathes. It reminds him of when he was a child and his father was about to scold him for getting into a fight with Dimitri.

Knowing there’s no other alternative, Felix looks up. He does his best to meet the professor’s stare, but Felix has never been one to like eye contact, and this is no exception. He looks away again (which is as good as admitting his guilt to everyone around them, he’s sure), and without meaning to, casts a glance at Linhardt.

He’s still pale, but he looks much better than he had before Caspar had shown up. He’s watching Felix with something like concern on his face. Pity, maybe. It almost makes Felix sick. He has to look away. 

The professor sighs. “Come with me. This battle is over for you.” 

Felix’s eyes widen. He whips around to face Byleth properly, indignant. “This is absurd! I—”

“Enough.” 

And that’s that. As much as he wants to, Felix can’t press the matter. He’s already lost the argument — and he’s not even entirely sure why there _was_ an argument to begin with. He hadn’t come out here chasing von Hevring down, and he hadn’t known about his stupid fear of blood. All Felix had wanted was a good fight, and now he’s being punished for being goaded into one. 

That _damned_ von Aegir. 

He’s nowhere to be seen as Professor Byleth leads Felix out of the thicket and off the battlefield. The mock battle seems to be nearly over anyway — only Claude, Edelgard, Dedue and Ashe remain — but that doesn’t mean everyone has left. On the contrary, those who had been beaten earlier watch with disgustingly rapt attention as Byleth marches Felix past them. 

“Did you hear Caspar shouting back there?” asks one of them. Hilda, who had inadvertently been the cause of all this. “I can’t believe someone would do such a thing…” 

“I concur,” says someone else. This one Felix only barely knows, and he can only put a name to the face because of how pompous and annoying he is. Lorenz. “Such behaviour is most unbecoming of a noble.” 

Behind them, Linhardt and Caspar have rejoined their classmates. Felix doesn’t see Dorothea run up to Linhardt, but he does hear her coo and simper over him like he’s some sort of sick child. “It’s okay to be scared of things, Lin,” she says, and the cloying sweetness in her voice makes that wave of nausea from earlier return with a vengeance. “Felix is in the wrong here for using that against you.” 

Felix clenches his fists by his side. He turns to face Dorothea. “I didn’t—” 

She cuts him off before he can even start. “Don’t you think you’ve already done enough?” 

His mouth snaps shut. Felix turns away, clenching his jaw. Fine. She can think what she likes. Everyone can. He doesn’t even care anymore; he just wants this to be over. 

Byleth calls him away. Felix follows, certain that Linhardt can’t hear the quiet apology he mumbles under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this fic was commissioned and outlined by [Finch](https://twitter.com/brindlefinch)! 
> 
> But if you're enjoying the writing and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or are interested in having me write a fic for you too, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> If you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand faces the consequences of his actions. Felix's friends have a thing or two to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here we are with this month's update. Things are really not going well for poor Felix, it seems. 
> 
> As always, this chapter was commissioned, outlined, and partially scripted by Finch! Thank you for sticking with me so far. ♥ I hope this chapter is to everyone's liking!

The whispers follow Ferdinand wherever he goes. In the halls, in the classrooms, in the training grounds and knights’ hall. Even the library is no refuge in the day that follows the mock battle, the normally quiet aisles between bookshelves buzzing and hissing with whispered gossip. 

“Did you hear what happened?” 

“I can’t believe it! Waving around a bloody sword like that when he was so scared—”

“I heard Linhardt fainted—” 

“—Felix tried to kill him!”

“He’s a killer!” 

It’s enough to drive Ferdinand mad. He’d thought that maybe, if he were to find a quiet corner in the library, tucked between bookshelves where nobody could see him, he would be able to escape it. 

But alas, no such luck is granted to him.

“I saw everything,” Lorenz says nearby, plucking a book from one of the higher shelves. He hands it to Ignatz, who clutches it close to his chest. “The both of them were absolutely _covered_ in blood; it was a wonder poor Linhardt could even still walk, as terrified as he was.” 

“It sounds pretty bad. I wonder if he’s still in the infirmary?” Ignatz mutters to himself. 

“Likely so. Honestly, to think that the nobility in Faerghus would stoop to such savagery…”

Ignatz fidgets. “I know we’re meant to be training as knights, but I can’t believe so many people just let Felix get away with being so… aggressive.”

Beside him, Marianne shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. She lowers her head and closes her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting him to be so much of a bully…” 

Ferdinand’s jaw clenches. To think that his cohort would fall to such lows as to engage in this horrid gossip! Have they no honour to speak of? Felix is not a bad person – he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, lead there by Ferdinand’s own meddlesome behaviour. He had not intended for such a misunderstanding to occur, and he certainly had not planned for things to spiral so completely out of his control. 

He does not know exactly what occurred between Felix and Linhardt in that thicket, having purposely put distance between them and himself in order to give them the privacy they deserved, but Ferdinand does know one thing: Felix Fraldarius is an honourable man, and none of this gossip is deserved.

Ferdinand slumps against the bookshelf. All of this is his fault. And because he is to blame for Felix’s current situation, he must also be the one to fix it. 

* * *

With the way the mock battle had ended, Ingrid isn’t surprised at all by the gossip floating about the halls. She’s not surprised that Felix is the subject of the rumours, either – he is a bit of a troublemaker at the best of times, given the way he so callously disregards decorum and, sometimes, even the most basic of manners – but what she _is_ surprised by is how vicious the rumours are. And while she can admit that Felix is crass, occasionally brash, and often outright rude, he is not the kind of person who would gleefully threaten someone like Linhardt by using his fear of blood against him. 

“It just doesn’t seem right,” Mercedes says at dinner the next day, pushing her potatoes around on her plate as she contemplates the rumours. “I’ve always thought Felix was quite kind underneath everything.” 

“Kind? Mercie, he hurt poor Linhardt! Unprovoked!” Annette says, swiveling around to face her friend. 

Ingrid hums and stuffs a forkful of pheasant in her mouth. She chews on it carefully as she considers her next words. Annette is… not entirely right, but she’s not entirely wrong, either.

Ingrid swallows, dabs at her mouth with her cloth napkin, and shakes her head. “I wouldn’t exactly call him kind, either...” 

“See?” 

“...But I’ve known him for years. I think Mercedes is right; something about this just doesn’t up. We’re missing information. We must be.” 

“Like what?” Annette asks.

Ingrid hums. “I… I don’t know. Maybe…” 

But before she can finish, a voice cuts across her thoughts: “Ah, Ingrid!” 

The three girls look up. Ferdinand von Aegir approaches their table, a smile on his face and a spring in his step, even despite the tension in his shoulders. 

Ingrid narrows her eyes at him. The last time they had spoken, he had begged her for a favour. One involving Felix, in fact. It’s suspicious that now, of all times, he should approach her again. “Hello, Ferdinand,” she greets despite her wariness. “Is there something I may help you with?” 

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact,” Ferdinand says, placing a hand over his chest and bowing. It’s a tad ostentatious for the dining hall, but the show of respect goes appreciated all the same. “Please excuse the intrusion, but I was hoping you would join me for a chat. There is something of the utmost importance I must speak of with you.” 

“Ooh, Ingrid!” Beside her, Annette giggles and nudges Ingrid’s arm. “Looks like someone’s got an admirer…” 

Ingrid’s face heats. “What? No – stop it, you two,” she says, glaring first at Annette, and then Mercedes, who is unsuccessfully attempting to hide her giggling behind her napkin. 

She turns back to Ferdinand. “I would be happy to discuss this matter with you, but I am in the middle of a meal right now. Can this wait?” 

“It will only take a moment, I assure you,” Ferdinand insists. “If you are worried about your food growing cold, then fear not; you will be back in your seat and enjoying your pheasant before you know it.” 

“Oh, go on, Ingrid,” Mercedes says. “We’ll still be here when you get back.” 

“Yeah! And maybe we’ll even have dessert!” 

Ingrid sighs. She does not want to go, and she does not want to risk her food cooling, but she knows that the longer she protests, the worse the situation will get; and so she stands, allowing Ferdinand to lead her out and into the entrance hall.

She tries to ignore her friends’ tittering as she leaves, but the sound follows her even as she steps over the entrance hall threshold.

Once they’re out of sight and earshot, Ingrid folds her arms in front of her chest. “All right, Ferdinand, what is so urgent that you must speak to me now?” 

For a moment, a flash of guilt crosses Ferdinand’s face. His smile falters and his brows knit, but the uncertainty is gone as quickly as it comes, replaced instead with something more serious. “It is about Felix. I know you and he are friends, but… the two of you are quite close, are you not?” 

Ingrid blinks. Before she realizes, her posture relaxes, arms unfolding and falling to her sides. “I… yes,” she says, hesitant. Why is Ferdinand so interested in Felix? He had been so fixated on asking him to tea a few weeks ago, and now this… And why only now? Does it have something to do with the rumours, as she had suspected from the beginning?

She frowns. “If you’re going to ask if the rumours are true, then I’m sorry, but…” 

She trails off, catching sight of a familiar flash of red hair in the corner of her vision. She turns her eyes to it, and sure enough, it’s as she feared: Sylvain is heading right for them. 

“We need to leave,” she says, reaching for Ferdinand and taking him by the arm. She ignores his little _‘ow!’_ of protest and starts to drag him away, knowing that they’re moments away from making a scene,

“But why—” 

“If you wish to have this talk in private, then we need to leave. Now. Otherwise…” 

But it’s too late. Sylvain makes eye contact with her, and as he approaches, his usually placid smile grows into a cheeky, cat-like grin. 

“Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?” He comes to a stop in front of them, hands on his hips and looking for all the world like a cat who’d caught a particularly plump canary.

Ingrid pinches the bridge of her nose. So much for speaking privately.

“You know, Ingrid,” Sylvain continues, ignoring her obvious annoyance, “if you wanted to have a secret rendezvous, you should have come to me, first. I’d have been glad to point you in the direction of a few nice… _private_ spots.” 

She shudders. “I don’t even want to think about what you might mean by that,” she snaps. “And this isn’t a secret rendezvous!” 

“Uh-huh,” Sylvain says. Smugness drips from his voice. “Sure.” 

“Actually,” Ferdinand interrupts, a note of impatience staining his usually cheerful tone, “if Sylvain would like to stay, that is fine. He is also Felix’s friend, after all.” 

“Wait – Felix?” That catches Sylvain’s attention. “What does this have to do with Felix?”

Ingrid lets out a breath of relief, thankful that Sylvain has at last stopped teasing her. “Ferdinand was just asking me about him,” she confirms. “And if you were willing to listen to me instead of jumping to conclusions…” 

“Right, right, sorry,” Sylvain says, though he doesn’t sound apologetic at all. “Go on, then, Ferdinand.” 

“Thank you,” Ferdinand says, with an appeasing smile directed at each of them in turn. “Now, as I have already said, I would like to speak with you about Felix. To be more specific, I would like to address the rumours that have surrounded him since the end of the mock battle.” He hangs his head; Ingrid’s scowl deepens. “I feel as though I must apologize to him.” 

“Why?” Ingrid asks.

With all the exhaustion of a man twice his age, Ferdinand sighs. “It is my fault that everyone is treating him so poorly. I did not expect Caspar or Professor Byleth to come searching for Linhardt during the mock battle, nor could I have predicted how they would overreact to finding him and Felix alone together.” 

“So you were the one who set all that up,” Sylvain says. Ingrid looks up at his face; his smile is gone, and though he doesn’t quite look angry, there is a tension in his jaw that Ingrid rarely ever sees on her friend. 

“Yes,” Ferdinand admits.

Sylvain’s gaze narrows. Ingrid steps forward, getting between them before either of them can say or do anything to aggravate the situation further. She swallows, trying to calm her own temper – how dare Ferdinand stay so calm when he has caused so many people so much misery? – and takes a deep breath.

“Why would you do that?” she asks. “To what end were you so adamant about the two of them meeting on the battlefield?” 

Ferdinand shifts from foot to foot, a nervous smile playing about his lips. “Ah. Well, you see… I thought… they would be a good… match.” 

Ingrid blinks. Her hands twitch. Her mouth falls open in disbelief; Sylvain takes a step back. 

“A good… match?” she repeats.

And that breaks the dam.

Sylvain bursts out laughing, loud and echoing through the polished hall. He clutches at his stomach and doubles over while Ferdinand hastily tries to explain himself: “You do not understand! I have spoken to both of them individually, and – Linhardt is lonely, you see, and complained to me about not being in a relationship – and – and they share the same favourite tea—!”

“ _Tea?!_ ” Ingrid shouts. Ferdinand winces; Sylvain just laughs harder. “Are you telling me that the entirety of Garreg Mach has decided to ostracize Felix and call him a _killer_ is because he and Linhardt both enjoy the same _tea_?!” 

“No! That is not what I—” 

“I can’t – I can’t believe this,” Sylvain wheezes, just barely managing to get the words out between fits of laughter. He’s still hunched over, one hand on his knee now while the other wipes a tear from his eye. “You actually thought – okay, no. No, I’m sorry, I gotta go, this is too much.” 

He straightens up, still quaking with laughter, and shakes his head before turning on his heel and sauntering off. He bids Ingrid a hasty goodbye that she hardly pays attention to; it’s the sudden outburst of laughter as he reaches the entrance hall doors that sticks with her instead.

She can’t blame him for leaving. While she does not find this nearly as funny as Sylvain does, she has also had quite enough of this nonsense. She opens her mouth to tell Ferdinand so, hands on her hips, but—

“My apologies,” Ferdinand says. He averts his gaze, face flushed. At least he has the shame to look embarrassed about his poor conduct. “I simply wished to inform you of what happened… and ask if you would be so kind as to pass on my apology, as I am certain Felix would not care to hear it from me so soon after the fact.” 

He sighs. Ingrid’s expression softens, though her frown stays firmly in place. Ferdinand does not seem dishonest, and he truly does appear to regret his actions. And yet still, Ingrid finds herself irritated. He does not deserve a second chance, but…

“I will… consider it,” she tells him. Ferdinand looks up, brows raised and the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips; but before he can thank her, Ingrid steps into his space and prods forcefully at his chest. 

“But know this,” she warns. “If something like this happens again, you will be delivering your apology to the end of my blade. Have I made myself clear?” 

He withers under her stare. “Y-yes,” he says. 

“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me.” 

She stalks past Ferdinand and returns to the dining hall. Her pace is so brisk that her braid sways behind her, and she does not even care that it hits Ferdinand in the arm as she goes by.

When she retakes her seat at the table, her food is cold. 

“What was that all about?” Annette asks. 

“Nothing,” Ingrid says, as calmly as she can. She takes a deep breath and slowly reaches for her fork, trying not to snap it in two as she spears her cold pheasant with it. “No offense, Mercedes, but I am beginning to think that everyone from the empire is crazy.” 

Mercedes giggles. “You’re not wrong,” she says. “We certainly are an interesting sort.” 

* * *

Of all the things to start rumours over. _Linhardt,_ Felix’s perfect match. Even now, Sylvain can hardly believe it – except that he can, because there’s no way that Ferdinand von Aegir would lie about something like that. He doesn’t have an insincere bone in his body, and Sylvain had always known it, but he hadn’t known that the guy was also a complete and utter idiot. 

Even so, it’s amusing, thinking that he really had been convinced that setting Felix and Linhardt up was a good idea. Sylvain can still feel laughter bubble up in his chest when he thinks about it, but he swallows it down, not wanting to risk another outburst. His stomach already hurts from laughing so hard, and the sheer hilarity of the notion has long since worn off, only to be tainted with an edge of anger. 

Because Sylvain _is_ angry. He’s angry that Ferdinand had been so thoughtless in hatching this stupid scheme of his, and that not just Linhardt, but _Felix_ had gotten hurt by it in the process.

So Sylvain looks for him. He makes his way to the training hall, intent on finding Felix and offering him a shoulder to cry on (though he doubts there will be any actual crying). Better him than someone else. 

Predictably, that’s exactly where Felix is. He’s alone in the middle of the pitch, swinging at and pivoting around a training dummy, striking it with all the finesse and twice the force of his usual routine. 

“Hey, killer,” Sylvain says as he saunters in. Felix’s face twitches and his expression contorts, nose wrinkling even as he stares straight ahead and keeps his gaze fixed on his target. He ignores Sylvain, instead continuing to cycle through stances and forms. 

“Aw, come on,” Sylvain says after the fifth minute of Felix pretending he doesn’t exist. “Is that any way to treat a friend?” 

Felix sighs, the sound throaty with aggravation. He spins and lunges forward, blade of his training sword pointed directly between Sylvain’s eyes. 

“What do you want?” he demands. “If you’re here to train, then pick up a blade and train by yourself. If not, then leave me be.” 

“Hey, hey, no need to be so aggressive!” Sylvain holds his hands up before himself and forces a smile upon his lips. Felix is pissed, that much is clear, so he knows he needs to tread carefully. “I just came to talk. You know, see how you were.” 

“I’m fine. If that is all, you can go now.” 

He lowers the sword. Sylvain relaxes. “Are you, though?” 

Felix glares. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he snaps. It’s not a question, but a deflection.

Sylvain shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, pretending to sound as though he really is only considering this for the first time. “There was some nasty business yesterday, or so I hear. A bunch of people are talking about it. Specifically, they’re talking about _you_.” 

Felix huffs. He averts his eyes to glare at one of the targets shoved up against the wall. “Let them talk,” he says. “I care not what for others think of me.” 

“I know,” Sylvain says. And he does know. Normally, Felix _doesn’t_ care what others think. Right now, though, the frustration he feels is clear in every inch of him, from the tightness in his jaw to the tension in his shoulders to the purse of his lips. 

Felix can say he doesn’t care all he wants, but Sylvain knows better. Something about this is bothering him. 

“Look,” he says, “for what it’s worth, I don’t buy what anyone is saying about you for a minute. Ingrid doesn’t, either. We know you better than that.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, Felix’s body sags, the tension flying out of him with a harsh exhale. “You don’t even know what happened.” 

“I would if you told me.” 

“I don’t—” Felix shakes his head. He sheathes his practice sword and clenches his fists at his sides, still determinedly not looking at Sylvain. “It was just a stupid mistake, that’s all. I never should have listened to von Aegir.” 

“Von Aegir,” Sylvain repeats. “What exactly did he do?” 

Felix gives him a look then, confusion and misery drawn in the furrow of his brow. “He challenged me to a fight,” he starts slowly. “I refused at first, but he – he taunted me, and I couldn’t let it go. But then he ran, and I gave chase, and—” He stops, takes a deep breath, and raises a hand to draw it over his face. “And then I found Linhardt. He was just _napping_ , and I was already…” 

“Linhardt,” Sylvain repeats, Felix’s explanation making him uneasy, though he can’t quite put a finger on why. “I see.”

He reaches out and puts a hand on Felix’s shoulder. Felix promptly swats it away, just as expected – but that’s fine. Sylvain doesn’t need to hear anymore. He already knows none of this had to do with Linhardt, and knowing that Felix was so worked up… it’s painfully obvious what happened next, even before Caspar and Professor Byleth had shown up.

“I didn’t know he was afraid of blood,” Felix says, so quietly Sylvain almost doesn’t hear him. “If I had, I would never have – I would have made sure I—” 

“Hey, it’s okay, Felix.” 

His head snaps up; Sylvain grins at him. “It’ll all work out. People here just love a little bit of gossip. Trust me – this will all blow over in a day or two, and people will be right back to talking about me.” 

It’s meant to be a joke, an attempt to cheer Felix up, but it just makes him glare. “Sylvain…” 

But before he can speak the threat that’s undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue, Sylvain interrupts: “Calm down, it’s a joke! But I can’t help but wonder…” He lifts an arm and ruffles the back of his hair – an affected gesture, trying to make himself appear more unaffected than he is. “Why are you so upset? Usually this kind of thing wouldn’t bother you at all.”

Felix frowns. Again, he looks away, this time at his feet as he kicks at the sandy pitch beneath them. “I…” 

Behind them, the door creaks open. Sylvain turns to look who it is.

“Ah, there you are, Felix. May I speak with you for a moment?” 

The door swings shut. Standing there before it, right in the entryway to the training hall and looking as though he hasn’t a care in the world, is Linhardt von Hevring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this fic was commissioned and outlined by [Finch](https://twitter.com/brindlefinch)! 
> 
> But if you're enjoying the writing and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or are interested in having me write a fic for you too, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> If you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥


	4. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt and Felix talk, and Felix learns something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I took a break from this fic for the holidays, but now I'm back with it and (hopefully) back on my once-a-month update schedule! This one was super fun to write -- I'm finding I really love writing Linhardt's dialogue. 
> 
> This fic and this chapter were both commissioned and outlined by Finch!

The moment Linhardt comes into sight, Felix feels Sylvain tense at his side. Not that he can blame him – even aside from the conversation they’d just had, Felix isn’t particularly thrilled to see Linhardt, either. But he doesn’t look as though he’s here to cause more of a stir than he already has. If anything, Linhardt looks  _ bored _ , as if whatever he’s interrupted Felix’s training for is more of a bother to him than anything. 

Seeing that look in his eye, Felix relaxes somewhat. Sylvain is still on his guard, however, though his posture has loosened – in appearance, at least. There’s still a tension to his jaw, an unwavering suspicion in his eye. Things Felix recognizes from him but doubts anyone else would.

If Linhardt detects any hostility from either of them, he either ignores it completely or simply chooses not to care. He strides forward with purpose, somehow, even despite the droop of his eyelids and the dragging of his feet. As he approaches, Sylvain makes a show of appearing even more relaxed, and Felix simply waits, eyes narrowed. 

When he reaches them, Linhardt turns to Sylvain with a mild frown. “Excuse me. If you don’t mind…” 

Sylvain grins. “Aw, c’mon, Linhardt. Whatever you have to say to Felix, you can say in front of me, right?” 

Linhardt does not look amused. “I’d rather not.” 

“But—” 

“Sylvain.” Felix cuts him off with a sharp glance. “It’s fine. Leave. I can handle this.” 

The air feels heavy around them. Tense, tight. Sylvain glances from Felix to Linhardt, then heaves a sigh and shrugs with wide open arms. “If you say so,” he mutters, defeated. Then, shoving his hands in his pockets, he skulks away. “I’ll catch you later, Felix.” 

And with that, he’s gone, the training hall doors closing behind him with a resolute  _ thud _ .

Felix and Linhardt are left completely and utterly alone. 

They stand there for a moment, Felix feeling awkward but refusing to show it on his face. Linhardt blinks at him sleepily, then turns his eyes away to survey the training hall. He peeks at every corner, every nook and cranny as if it’s the first time he’s ever been in it. Felix wonders, somewhat bitterly, if it  _ is _ . It wouldn’t surprise him; Linhardt is far too lazy to voluntarily come here and train. 

He sneers and opens his mouth to say as much, but stops when Linhardt finally, finally moves to reach into his messenger bag. He pulls out a thick, dusty book –  _ Becoming the Blade: A Study in Sword Forms _ – and looks back up at Felix. “Do you mind if I read in here? No matter where I go, nobody seems to be able to stop talking. Even the library is full of incessant chatter today, and that never happens. This seems to be the only place I can get some actual peace and quiet.”

Felix balks. For a moment, he’s at a complete loss for words.  _ This _ is what Linhardt had come in here and chased Sylvain away for? To ask if he could sit here and read? It’s ridiculous. Completely and utterly flabbergasting. And it’s stirring something up in Felix, white and hot and angry. 

“That’s it?” he asks, a mixture of irritation and incredulity in his voice. It’s the kind of tone that would make Ingrid snap back at him, make Sylvain back up and utter platitudes to calm him, and make Dimitri sigh in exasperation. Linhardt, however, does not move an inch, does not flinch, does not falter, and does not seem to care at all when Felix enters his personal space. “Are you out of your mind?” 

“I assure you I’m quite sane,” he says, meeting Felix’s angry gaze with an unaffected blink. “Like I said, it’s noisy out there, and I think I’d much prefer the sound of swords against wood to the insufferable gossip of our classmates.” 

“You fool.” Felix’s face twists into a snarl, and he bares his teeth. “They’re gossiping about  _ us _ . About what I did to you.” 

Again, Linhardt doesn’t react. He simply blinks, nonplussed.

“I don’t believe this.” Felix lifts a hand to his forehead and looks down at his feet. “Are you up to something? Whatever it is, I won’t fall for it.” 

Linhardt shrugs. “I’m just waiting for you to finish.” 

Felix glares at him. “I don’t understand you.” 

“That’s fine. Like I said, I simply came here to read.” 

“And you’re really okay with just coming in here and sitting around while I train, even after what I did to you?” Felix doesn’t believe it. There has to be more to this, right? There is simply no other explanation. 

But again, Linhardt shrugs, this time accompanied by an eyeroll. His patience is finally drawing thin, it seems, and Felix notes that with a guilty little thrill. “That was yesterday, Felix,” he says patiently, as if speaking to a small child. “This is today, and today, I want to read. But as I said, I have been unable to find anywhere quiet enough to do so, since our classmates won’t stop gossiping. The way I see it, that’s  _ your _ fault, so the least you could do is put up with me today.” 

Felix’s eyes narrow, his nose wrinkling in something like a sneer. Is Linhardt actually serious? This has to be a joke. Felix waits for a moment, expecting a punchline, but nothing comes. He is, therefore, forced to assume that Linhardt is every bit as foolish and strange as he appears. 

It’s a comfort, in some ways. 

Felix turns away, a scowl darkening his face. “Fine. Do whatever you want,” he says, raising his sword and falling into stance opposite the training dummy he had been practicing with before. “You can stay, but don’t get in my way or distract me.” 

“Believe me, I have no intention of getting in your way.” Linhardt directs a significant look to the training dummy, cut so deeply that it looks as though it’s about to fall apart. Felix feels a small wave of embarrassment wash over him: he hadn’t intended to go quite so hard on the mannequin, and although the deep slashes in it mean his blows had been powerful, they’re in all the wrong places. There’s no finesse at all to the pattern of the marks, no method to be found in any of the blows. 

But if Linhardt cares, he says nothing. He simply walks over to the pile of training dummies dumped unceremoniously in the corner, relaxes into it, and cracks open the book he had brought along with him.

And that’s it. After that, it’s easy to ignore him. He’s still there in Felix’s peripheral vision, and so it’s a little bit tricky to shake the feeling that he’s not alone, but in the end Felix decides he prefers that to completely blocking Linhardt from his sight. This way, if he  _ does _ try anything (unlikely, but one can never be too careful), Felix will be able to see him coming. 

He falls into his usual rhythm, this time without any of his previous anger. Every strike of his sword lands, cutting shallowly into the training dummy. He dances around it, landing blow after blow, each one faster than the last, but lighter. He ends up too far from the dummy, and then too close, and he grunts in frustration when he misses a step. 

He’s far from perfecting his technique, but each new attempt brings him one step closer to mastery. He’s able to focus better now that he’s more used to Linhardt’s presence, even if he’s still somewhat on edge from being watched. And he  _ is _ being watched – every time Felix slips up with his blade and huffs in frustration, he catches Linhardt looking up from his book, a curious expression on his face. 

“What are you staring at?” 

“You,” Linhardt replies nonchalantly, utterly unashamed of being caught watching. “What is the technique you’re practicing?” 

“The Finesse Blade,” Felix answers, pleasantly surprised that Linhardt has any interest at all in the finer details of his swordplay. “A combat art the professor showed me.”

“I’m aware of it.” He lifts his book and turns the page he’s on toward Felix, but he’s too far away for Felix to make out anything on it. Presumably, it details the technique in long, stuff paragraphs and plain, ugly diagrams and figure drawings. “Your form seems to be correct, but you’re channeling your energy poorly. Unless you’re intentionally trying to combine it with magic and failing, but you don’t seem the type who would fail on purpose.” 

Felix scoffs. “Nonsense. What would you know about…” he trails off, something in Linhardt’s words sticking with him. Magic? “Hold on. What do you mean, ‘combine it with magic?’” 

Linhardt raises a brow. “So it  _ was _ unintentional. Are you telling me that you haven’t noticed the sparks flying from your sword?” 

Felix blinks. Confused, he lifts his weapon, turning his wrist to and fro to examine it. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, but… 

He scoffs again. “I’ve noticed nothing of the sort,” he says. “If you’re going to keep spouting your nonsense and distracting me, then you might as well leave.” 

Linhardt falls silent. He shrugs and settles back into his pile of discarded dummies, and Felix goes back to his training. He takes two deep, calming breaths before getting into stance again, but once he’s there, he slips comfortably back into routine. 

An hour passes, silent but for the sounds of Felix’s boots scuffing the training pitch, his sword striking the target, and his breaths coming short and heavy. Every now and then he catches the sound of Linhardt turning a page, or the clamor of someone entering the training hall only to leave again when they see who’s occupying it, but for the most part, Felix remains in his own little world. 

And then Linhardt clears his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

Felix nearly drops his sword. 

He catches it before he fumbles it too badly, and whirls around, momentum the only thing stopping him from tripping over his own two feet. When he steadies himself, he’s facing Linhardt, a snarl twisting his face. “What did I say about distracting me? I had it that time!” 

Linhardt snorts. For maybe the first time since Felix has known him, he cracks a smile. “Are you this rude to everyone who tries to apologize to you?” 

Felix scoffs. “I – I don’t need an apology from you.” Why would Linhardt apologize to him, anyway? He’s not the type who would care about interrupting someone or ignoring their boundaries, at least from what little Felix knows of him.

Heedless of his dismissive tone, Linhardt stands and walks over. His smile has faded into something more solemn, something almost… guilty. He stops only a few paces away, close enough for conversation, but far enough they’ve both got ample space.

“There’s no way you could have known,” Linhardt says, and then it clicks into place what, exactly, he is apologizing for. “I don’t exactly make my fear of blood a secret, but seeing as you’re cooped up in here all the time, it’s not surprising you didn’t know.” 

Felix looks away, face heating, though he can’t tell if it’s indignance at being called out for his training habits, or embarrassment over his lack of knowledge. 

Linhardt continues, unperturbed: “It was a battle. You were fighting; nothing more, nothing less. I was the one who was being a coward.” 

Felix shakes his head. “You weren’t—” 

“I was,” Linhardt insists, although Felix isn’t sure he knows what Felix had been about to say: that Linhardt  _ had _ been somewhat cowardly, but he hadn’t been completely unreasonable in it. “I know I’m a coward when it comes to blood. I always have been, but I’m working on it. ...Slowly.” 

Was that a joke? Felix shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with disliking blood or battle. You clearly weren’t built for it.” 

“Indeed. By the way, did you know you have a talent for Reason magic?” 

The sudden change in topic throws Felix off nearly as much as Linhardt’s earlier interruption. He seems to be quite good at catching Felix off-guard. “I… what?” Felix frowns. “You’re clearly not as smart as you look if that’s what you think. I’m a swordsman. A brawler. An archer, if I must be, but I have no skill in magic whatsoever.” 

Linhardt rolls his eyes. He moves past Felix, making his way to the storage closet where the swords are kept. He opens it up and hums to himself as he rummages around, and Felix watches, silent and annoyed. Just what does he think he’s playing at? 

Completely ignorant of Felix’s suspicion, Linhardt returns a moment later with a sword in his hands. He’s awkward with it, looking for all the world like he’s afraid to drop it or like it’s ten seconds away from gaining a will of its own and slicing his head off. 

It’s… embarrassing. Felix is embarrassed on his behalf. How can someone just go through their life like that, with no idea how to handle a weapon properly? 

But then again, this is no ordinary weapon. It’s one Felix has spared no time in trying to learn, despite his fascination with the jagged, zig-zagged blade.

“A Levin Sword,” Linhardt says. “It’s a little beat up, but it should suffice.” 

He offers it to Felix. Felix eyes it suspiciously, but sheathes his practice sword and takes this one instead. “What am I supposed to do with it?” 

Linhardt smiles again, pleased this time. “You know the Grounder combat art, right?” 

“I do.” 

“Then do it. Swing the sword in the air as if you were trying to strike a pegasus.” 

He takes a step back. Felix frowns. “Why?” 

“You’ll see.” Linhardt backs up further, further, even further – all the way to the edge of the training pitch. Felix’s scowl deepens. He doesn’t quite get what Linhardt is talking about, or what he’s trying to avoid, but he decides to go along with his inane drivel all the same. If he does, then at least this will be over soon, and he and Linhardt can go back to ignoring one another. 

He takes up a stance. Feet firmly on the ground, fingers wrapped carefully around the Levin Sword’s grip. He looks up, envisioning an enemy in the sky, and he shifts to correct his balance and brace against the imaginary gusts of wind from a pegasus’s wings. His entire body is buzzing with nerves and… something else. Some other kind of energy Felix can’t quite place, but the thought of it alone excites him.

He takes a breath, steps forward, and swings. 

The moment the blade reaches the zenith of its arc, a bolt of lightning bursts from it. It explodes outward, uncontrolled, and strikes the training dummy in front of Felix. It shatters, splinters of wood and straw flying in every which direction. 

Felix drops the sword to brace himself, and backs up away from it.

Few things scare Felix Hugo Fraldarius. He would proudly boast that fact to anyone who asked, and meet any challenge to the contrary that may come his way. This, however, has momentarily frightened him, simply from how unexpected the burst of lightning had been. But now that the dust is settling, and the scraps of the training dummy have all landed, he finds himself more intrigued than anything else. 

Behind him, Linhardt steps forward, an insufferable smirk on his face. He touches Felix’s shoulder, cool palm laying over it, and they both look at the sword laying harmless on the ground. 

“Magic,” Linhardt says. He lets go of Felix’s shoulder, hand sliding past his arm, and he makes his way over to the sword to bend down and pick it up. “Normally I wouldn’t have said anything, let alone offered a physical demonstration... but I must admit that you’ve piqued my interest, Felix.” 

He brings the sword back over, only a trace of a smile on his face. He’s back to looking almost bored. “Very well. I’ve decided.” 

“...Decided what?” Felix asks, reaching out and taking the sword from Linhardt when it’s held out to him. That same energy he’d felt before begins to tingle within him again, prickling at his hand and spreading through his body like pins-and-needle static. 

“That I’ll help you train your reason magic.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and like he’s annoyed that Felix hadn’t already figured out what he was going to say. “As an apology for causing the rumours about you, I’ll teach you how to hone that magic so you can use it properly in battle. If you’re interested, of course.” 

Felix blinks. He looks from Linhardt to the Levin Sword in his hands, and then back again, just in time to see Linhardt shrug and move away, past him, back to the pile of training dummies where he’d left his book and his bag. “I’ll meet you sometime tomorrow,” he says. “Whenever I feel like it, really. If I haven’t gotten bored of the idea by then.” 

Felix snorts. He shakes his head and lowers the sword to his side, grinning amusedly at Linhardt. “I won’t learn anything if you’re going to be a lazy, slothful teacher.” 

He doesn’t get so much as a hum in acknowledgement. Linhardt simply ducks down to grab his things, settles his book bag over his shoulder, and moves toward the training hall door. 

“Goodbye.” 

The door closes behind him. Felix stares at the empty space Linhardt left behind and shakes his head, derisive, before turning back to the remnants of his training dummy. 

There’s no point in continuing now. And yet, still curious, Felix tightens his grip on the sword. He swings it, one-handed, and marvels at the crackle of electricity that dances along the blade. 

Perhaps training his Reason magic will be a worthy endeavor, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this fic was commissioned and outlined by [Finch](https://twitter.com/brindlefinch)! 
> 
> But if you're enjoying the writing and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or are interested in having me write a fic for you too, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> If you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥


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